


know where you belong

by robokittens



Series: hockey threesome hell [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Drug and Alcohol Mentions, Eric Bittle is Possibly the World's Best Boyfriend, Established Relationship, Jealousy, Kent Parson Has A Heart, M/M, Making Out, Multi, Oral Sex, Past Relationship(s), Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism, communication issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 05:27:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3598065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens/pseuds/robokittens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bittle stands up, naked, and takes two shuddery steps over to Kent. He puts a hand on Kent's thigh, just above his knee, and says, "How do you want me?" and Kent, god help him, thinks <em>any way I can have you</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	know where you belong

**Author's Note:**

> i sent this off to beta and ngozi posted a picture of bitty in (apparently) kent parson's finest. coincidence? (yes.)
> 
> a trillion thank yous to [reserve](http://archiveofourown.org/users/reserve) for dragging me into this fandom and then agreeing to beta this hot mess and also for everything. (and to [defcontwo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo) & [onceuponamoon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponamoon) for enabling my parse problem.)

\\_ \\_ \\_

_couple days off. home to see the folks. thinking abt roadtripping to boston._

Kent hesitates, closes out of the message. It saves as a draft, of course; no one gets off easy in the age of technological miracles. 

Things with Jack … didn't end well, the last time they saw each other. To put it mildly. Kent fucked up, he's willing to admit that he fucked up — but he was _right_ , everything he said was right, even if there was nothing right about the way he said it. (The first "I've missed you," maybe, the "I've missed this," voice low and fingers tugging at Jack's belt loops, pulling him in. He had that part right.)

Kent doesn't apologize much, but he wants to this time, wants to put things right between them. And it isn't like Jack "what's an iPod" Zimmermann is going to accept an apology over text message. But if he just … says he's around, puts it out there, then maybe. Maybe they can talk. 

He opens the message up and hits send, sends a second one a moment later: _good game. congrats_

He's not expecting much, not expecting anything, definitely not expecting it promptly. Which is why it's a surprise when, not five minutes later, his phone buzzes.

It's Jack, of course it's Jack, and Kent's breath definitely doesn't catch in his throat. This is Jack, _Zimms_ , his best friend, his teammate, his … whatever else. Even if he hasn't been any of those things in a long time, not really.

 _Thanks._ , Jack's message says.

And that's it, that's all. Kent shoves his phone away and goes back to clicking through ESPN.com, hoping to find something interesting. He's read everything about the Aces, even though he promised his Mom he wouldn't while he was home. ("Pretend you're here with us, Kenny," his Mom had said, and kissed his forehead. Kent wrinkled his nose, protested, "Mom, don't, I'm an adult; no one's called me Kenny in _ages_.")

His phone buzzes again.

_I got a contract. Would you look it over if you're in town?_

_duh_ , Kent says. It's too quick a reply, but whatever. He's not a teenage girl; he doesn't have to analyze these things. _when ??_

 _Playoff Party tonight. Talk then_ comes back a few minutes later, and then a moment later a text that just says _?_

Kent can't help the little thrill that shivers through him. You don't talk at a party when you need to talk; you talk at a party when you need other people not to hear. When you need to pretend that no one sees you slip away. 

_/

Jack's tiny boyfriend (as if Kent could even pretend to have forgotten his unsubtle drunk flirting or his wide fear-shiny eyes; as if there isn't a photo of them on Twitter; as if Kent doesn't read every college paper article about the Wellies, every draft rumor on the internet, every scouting report) narrows his eyes. His hand is on his hip. It's a wonder the press hasn't picked up on how gay this kid is yet; it'll be a wonder if no one tries to ruin Jack with it.

"Bittle, right?" Kent says, and smiles.

"Parson," Bittle replies. His tone is cool, but he's still big eyed and standing just too close to Jack; it looks less like a united front and more like he wants to hide behind him. The backs of their hands are touching. It looks casual, incidental, but Jack doesn't do casual or incidental. Kent knows this; Bittle probably knows this now. Jack knows that Kent knows this.

Christ. He should never have come to this fucking party.

"I baked you a pie," Bittle says, smiling sweetly. It looks … well, genuinely sweet. He's a sweet kid; Kent can tell. "I didn't know what you like, so I just made pecan — everyone likes pecan pie, right? Y'all go on upstairs. I'm going to check on Betsy, make sure no one's messed with her. Your pie’s still heating up."

He leans up like he's about to kiss Jack on the cheek and doesn't, settling back down. He does grab Jack's hand for just a second and squeeze it before walking off. Kent's staring, he knows he's staring; he meets Jack's eyes.

"Want me to look over that contract?" he says. He smiles, sharper than Bittle. Jack jerks his head in the direction of the stairs. Kent goes first.

It's darker upstairs, and he stops for just a second to let his eyes adjust. _Pillar of salt_ , he thinks wryly, and doesn't turn around.

" — _talk_ , Parse," Jack is saying. Kent is several steps further up the staircase, so that's all he really hears; the rest of it is lost to the noise of the party. “Just talk,” Jack says, “just talk,” and follows Kent up the stairs like he really thinks that's all they're going to do.

_/

"I think it looks good. But I'm not a lawyer, Jack."

The little lamp on Jack's desk is barely enough to illuminate the entire desk, but it's all that Jack had turned on when they walked into the room, even though he'd had to cross the room in the dark. There's light from the windows, though, and that's enough to see Jack by now that Kent’s eyes have adjusted.

He looks … stressed, maybe, but the bags under his eyes are a little lighter than the last time Kent saw him, and there's a lightness to his step that Kent hasn't seen in a long, long time. He might be happy. Kent doesn't remember what happiness looks like on Jack, if he ever knew. They might not have been happy together, not really, but they had _something_.

"I know. But I wanted …" Jack hesitates, and Kent moves in.

"An excuse to see me?" It's no effort to move behind Jack, one hand on the desk and the other on Jack's hip, pulling them close together. Jack goes still and then relaxes, twists in Kent's arms.

"Parse …" he says quietly, trailing off.

Kent makes a soft, agreeable sound, hardly real words as he presses his lips to Jack's. Jack opens for him instantly, one hand coming to rest on the back of Kent's neck, gentle as anything. Kent licks into Jack's mouth. Jack sighs and goes lax against him, but when Kent bites at his lip the hand on his neck tightens, pulling Kent up and in. It's sloppy, rushed, but Jack's making these little panting noises into Kent's mouth and Kent would (maybe, just maybe) give up a Stanley Cup win if it meant he got to hear those sounds forever.

There's a faint squeaking sound that barely registers, but the flood of light does, and the way Jack goes stiff in his arms, pulls slowly away. Kent tightens his hold on Jack's hip, and moves back half a step, just enough that he can look back over his shoulder.

Bittle's in the doorway, actually holding a pie. It's steaming. He's got fucking oven mitts on, patterned with little hockey sticks. "Hi boys," he says, and lightly kicks the door shut.

He puts the pie down on the desk, sets the oven mitts next to it, and leans over Kent's arm to kiss Jack lightly on the cheek, the way he hadn't downstairs. Jack turns into it and chases Bittle's mouth with his own, their kisses softer, sweeter than the ones he'd shared with Kent. Jack doesn't move from the cage of his arms, doesn't take his hand off Kent's neck. 

(Kent can't help but remember their time in the Q, the touches they tried to keep incidental so the girls wouldn't notice. He remembers kissing Jack once, for a pair of girls who'd giggled and said they'd only kiss if Parse and Jack did too, the way he'd gotten too into it and Jack had pushed him off, laughing. Another line, and one of the girls was going down on the other. They hadn't even asked for the boys to mirror that.

Kent had made a joke about it later, something dumb and not very funny, his back against the wall and his dick shoved down Jack's throat, and the way Jack's laugh went through him was enough to make him come on the spot.)

Bittle pulls away. Kent has to resist the urge to kiss the taste of him off Jack's lips, maybe. He moves his hand from the desk and then, more slowly, lets go of Jack's hip. He takes a step back. Jack doesn't move, but he could.

"So now," Bittle says decisively. "We could eat some pie, which I assure you is delicious. Or we can talk about what we're doing here."

Kent and Jack look at each other, and the quirk at the corner of Jack's lips, brief as it is, is almost enough to make him laugh. They never were the best at communication. He's honestly not sure, thinking about it, if they've ever _talked_ about sex beyond "I think she's into you, dude" or "God, babe, that feels so good."

"Let's talk," Jack says. He steps away, and Kent can feel the loss of him, a sudden chill that replaces where he'd been standing. Jack wraps an arm around Bittle, who leans into him, then pulls Jack with him to sit on the edge of Jack's bed. Kent leans against the desk for a moment longer, then grabs Jack's chair and spins it around to straddle it. He'd thrown his jacket over the back of it when they'd first gotten up here, and the lambskin is soft against his arms.

"So I guess y'all —" Bittle starts to say, just as Kent begins with "What are we —" and Jack makes an abortive noise that was probably going to be a word. Everyone falls silent. Jack coughs a little awkwardly into the hand that isn't on Bittle's waist. 

"I don't …" Jack's voice sounds rusty, like he hasn't spoken in a long time. It's nerves, Kent knows, but that doesn't stop his dick from taking interest. He can't take his eyes off the two of them, the easy comfort (which wasn't something he knew Jack could even feel), the casual touches. It's starting to sink in that this kid is Jack's _boyfriend_ , for real. He's … into it.

Jack takes a deep breath, continues. "I don't think we should have sex. You and me," he clarifies quickly, looking at Kent.

"What's 'sex'?" Kent asks. He smirks, makes air quotes, but he can't take his eyes off Jack's lips.

Jack pauses, takes a breath, looks like he's thinking about it. Before he can say anything Bittle cuts in, voice sweet and steely all at once.

"He doesn't have to do anything he doesn't want to," Bittle says firmly. "He doesn't — _you_ don't get to touch him any way he doesn't want."

Kent rolls his eyes. "Thanks for the Consent 101, professor. Jeez, Zimms, what _have_ you been telling him about me?"

"Nothing," Jack says. He means it. It fucking cuts.

Kent stands up quickly, spins the chair around and sits back down, elbows on his knees and chin in his hands. He leans forward.

 _Look_ , he thinks, _I'm the extra here, the outlier, the guilty party. I'll take what you'll give me._

 _Bullshit_ , he thinks, a beat too late. _I'm Kent Parson and I take what I fucking want._

"We kissed," Kent points out. 

All Jack says is, "I know," but his voice is soft. From the look on Bittle's face, he noticed.

"Wanna kiss again?"

"Yeah," Jack says, and he doesn't need to say _but_ for Kent to hear it. Kent shrugs.

It's a stalemate, apparently, and Kent's ready to just give up and go, tell Jack to sign the contract and have fun in fucking Providence, maybe they'll see each other on the ice some day. Leave him to his cute little boyfriend, who's taken the opportunity to curl further into Jack, to start pressing kisses — tiny, sweet little kisses, Kent's sure — under his ear. Bittle looks up and meets Kent's eyes, and Kent knows a challenge when he sees one.

Kent sighs, sits back in the chair so the tenting in his pants is more clearly visible. "Well," he says, and makes like he's going to stand up.

"Kenny," Jack says, "Don't go."

It's a low fucking blow, calling him that, and there's no way Jack doesn't know it. Kent's eyes narrow, but it doesn't stop him from watching them kiss: the flick of Jack's tongue against Bittle's lip, the way Bittle's eyelashes flutter just a little, the wet sounds and the rough breathing. Doesn't stop Kent from palming himself through his jeans, pressing down almost hard enough to hurt.

Doesn't stop Kent from getting ideas, for sure. _Someone_ has to mastermind this thing.

"Hey Bittle," Kent says quietly, stretching his long legs out to prop his heels on the edge of Jack's bed. "You bottom?"

Bittle looks up sharply; even from here, Kent can see the way Jack's arm tightens around his waist.

"Once," Bittle replies slowly, warily. "In high school. Why?"

Kent's lips quirk, and before he realizes it a smile spreads itself across his face. "Because," he says after a moment, "I think Jack would — Nah. Because I want you to ride me. Here, in his chair. While he watches." Jack's breath hitches audibly. "And I _know_ he'd like it."

It's just silence, for a moment. Kent's starting to get edgy again, wishes he'd had another beer before he'd come up here, wishes he'd taken a Klonopin or something. He shifts, uncrosses and recrosses his ankles on the bed.

Bittle says Jack's name quietly; they're still close enough to be breathing each other's air, but it's loud enough for Kent to hear. He can hear the question in it — Bittle's not scared, not wary, just … checking. He's in, for sure; Kent can always tell. And Jack …

Jack lifts a hand to brush his thumb over Bittle's lower lip. His eyes cut over to Kent and he nods, a movement small enough that it might not have happened at all. Kent grins. He slouches back in the chair, his feet pushing forward on the bed. 

"Hey Jack," he says, "You wanna get your boy ready for me?"

"He's not 'my boy'," Jack protests, but Bittle pulls back, arches an eyebrow at him. 

"I'm not?" 

Kent hadn't realized it was possible for someone's accent to get that thick that quickly, nor for it to be evident in so few words. There might be a word for Bittle's tone other than _sassy_ , but he can't think of one.

Jack starts protesting — ownership and autonomy and all that nonsense, shot through with the his usual flustered stammer, the one that means he's drunk or horny or some combination of the above. Kent can't stop from grinning, and when their eyes meet, Bittle's grinning too. 

Bittle … gets Jack. It's obvious. He might not know him like Kent knows him, but he gets him. It's good; Kent's surprised by how good he feels about it.

"Jack," Bittle says, and " _Jack_ " again when it becomes clear Jack isn't really listening. He cups Jack's face in both hands and kisses him lightly on the lips before shrugging out from the grasp of his arms and standing up. "I'll be right back. I'm going to … ah … I'm gonna …" 

There's just barely enough light to see how he's going pink as he scurries through the door that leads to the bathroom. Kent hears a lock click, then another, and the sink starts running full blast.

"He's really cute," Kent says. He doesn't mean to say it, but it's true. Jack looks up, a look on his face that's almost a frown. Kent shrugs.

"He is," Jack says after a moment. He looks down at his lap. Kent is pretty sure he's smiling.

The water stops; the lock unclicks. Bittle walks back in looking slightly sheepish; he hasn't bothered to fasten his jeans back up, and the little triangle of red cotton underwear visible through the undone fly is weirdly alluring. 

He runs his fingers across Kent's arm as he passes, so lightly Kent barely feels it, and sits back on the bed.

"Are you okay? Do you wanna do this?" Jack's whispering, but he's a little nervous, louder than he thinks he is.

Bittle grins. It's one of the bravest fronts Kent's ever seen. "Are you asking me if I want you to put your fingers in me? I thought we'd talked about this — I want whatever you want to give me. Wherever you want to give it to me." His tone is light and teasing, and Kent would bet they _have_ had this conversation before. 

(Which might mean Jack still hasn't fucked anyone. Any guys, anyway. He knows Jack has fucked girls; he's seen it. He has no idea what Jack's sex life is like now that he's not there.)

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and thumbs through Facebook, his public profile (boring, boring) and then his personal feed (boring). He doesn't want to … intrude, or whatever. He wants this, god yeah he wants this, but if they want him to keep his pants on, he will. If they want him to leave, he'll leave; if they want him to watch … that would be good. That would be really good.

He's debating if it would be rude to turn the sound on on this Vine when he realizes he doesn't hear them talking; the noise from downstairs had been enough to camouflage the sound of Bittle straddling Jack's lap, his knees on either side of Jack's waist. One of Jack's hands is cupping Bittle's ass through his jeans and the other is rucking up the back of his button front. The amount of Bittle's skin covered by just one of Jack's hands is frankly obscene. 

Now that he's listening, Kent can hear them kissing.

Jack gets Bittle's jeans shoved down, his underwear too, and they're tipped back at what looks like an awkward angle but it doesn't seem like either of them mind. Jack's got both hands on Bittle's ass, now, kneading the flesh there. Bittle shivers every time Jack's fingers brush over his crack. Kent really, _really_ wants to fuck him. 

He drags the heel of his hand over his dick through his jeans. He thinks about taking it out, but he doesn't want to risk it — he'd rather be uncomfortable than come too soon. Or get run out of the room with his dick out, even if that seems increasingly unlikely.

The condoms in his jacket pocket crinkle a little when Kent reaches in there, but it doesn't seem to disturb the two on the bed. He's not going for the condoms, anyway; he pulls the little tube of lube out just in time to see Jack reach out, pat around on the bed for a bottle that isn't there.

"Zimms," he calls quietly, and Jack's eyes snap open. He catches the tube effortlessly when Kent throws it at him, snatching it out of the air.

Bittle looks at Jack — not at his hand — and then back over his shoulder at Kent. "Parson with the assist," he mutters, sounding impressed, and Kent can see him freeze when he realizes what he's just said. 

"Oh no," he says, "No y'all don't, I was making a joke; let's not stop to analyze this play, please."

Jack looks up at Kent and they make eye contact for — not the first time all night, but maybe the third. It's the first time Kent's seen him smile like that in a while. It's the first time all night, for sure, that Jack has looked genuinely glad that Kent is there.

Breaking eye contact with Jack is one of the hardest thing Kent's ever had to do; watching him focus back in on his new boyfriend is even harder. 

The snap of the tube opening sounds impossibly loud. Jack drizzles the lube over his fingers. He's staring at his own hand. 

They end up with Bittle on his back, his knees hooked over Jack's shoulders and his cock in Jack's mouth. Jack works one finger into him, slowly, then two. Bittle has a forearm flung over his eyes and the index finger of his other hand clenched in his teeth, his fingers balled into a fist. He's still loud, stifled moans and gasps; it's the kind of loud that means you're trying to keep quiet and your roommates should pretend you're succeeding.

Kent can't blame him — he's never had Jack's fingers up his ass, not with intent anyway, but he still jerks off thinking about Jack's blowjobs sometimes. They'd be legendary — they _deserved_ to be legendary — but no matter how high Kent got he was never dumb enough to talk about it. ("If you did this on the ice, you'd be the number one pick for sure," he'd said once, and Jack had bitten his inner thigh so hard he'd been bruised for weeks.)

He's just starting to think he should pull Jack off, worried that Bittle will come even before Kent's got his dick in him, but before he can say anything Bittle's pushing at Jack's shoulders.

"Stop, stop," he gasps out. "Jack, I'm gonna —"

Kent grins. Same wavelength. That's a good sign.

Jack lets go of Bittle's dick with a wet squelch of a sound that should be disgusting. But there's the sight of Bittle's dick resting against Jack's lips for just a second, there's the way Kent's harder now than he can even pretend to ignore, the way Bittle tugs Jack up his body and kisses him, hard and fast and messy. The way Jack's fingers must have twisted inside him, the way Bittle squirms and pants into Jack's mouth.

"Okay," Bittle says, the word twice as long as it should be with how long his ragged breath draws it out. He takes a deep breath, tries it again: "Okay. Jack, I'm —" He shifts, and Kent can tell the moment where he drags himself off Jack's fingers from the way his jaw drops, the way his shoulders shiver and then square themselves.

He sets himself back down on the end of the bed, gingerly, like the mattress will hurt his ass at this angle more than it had before, and leans forward. He bends nearly in half to push off his jeans, his underwear, his socks; Kent looks down the line of his back, watching his spine shift as he moves, watching Jack. When Bittle sits back up, he pulls his shirt off, too.

"Okay," Bittle says again. He stands up, naked, and takes two shuddery steps over to Kent. He puts a hand on Kent's thigh, just above his knee, and says, "How do you want me?" and Kent, god help him, thinks _any way I can have you_.

He pulls a condom out of his jacket pocket and hands it to Bittle. Bittle stares at it like he doesn't know what to do with it — hopefully not true — and Kent starts unbuttoning his shirt. He should have done this earlier, maybe, but he stops worrying about it, about much of anything, when he feels Bittle's fingers on his fly. 

Bittle's torn open the corner of the condom wrapper and it dangles from his teeth, glinting metallic in the desk lamp light. He unfastens Kent's jeans with brisk surety, and when he cups Kent's dick through his underwear before sliding them halfway down his thighs Kent thinks he might die. 

On the bed, Jack makes a face that says Kent should have seen this coming. He probably should have.

Bittle presses the condom into Kent's hand and turns back toward the bed. Jack holds out the bottle of lube and Bittle folds his hand around it, around Jack's hand, pulls him in for a deep kiss. He says something not quite loud enough for Kent to hear, but it sounds like "You can touch yourself if you want," and Kent's dick and heart both jump. Then Bittle turns to face him. 

If — if this kid has Jack figured out like that, if he really does. He's good for Jack, christ, it hurts to admit but it seems like he's _good_ for him. It's not like Kent ever thought he and Jack were good for each other, not really, but … they took care of each other. If Jack has someone to take care of him now, that's. That's good.

The condom is lubricated but Kent slicks a little more on, lets the tube fall to the ground (uncapped, but oh well; Jack can deal with it later) and cups the backs of Bittle's thighs, pulling him in until he's straddling Kent's lap. They both let out a breath when Kent's dick slides across Bittle's perineum.

"I could do this more easily in skates," Bittle mutters. He's hitched one foot up onto the chair, thigh muscles twitching with effort.

"Don't let Jack hear you. He might get ideas."

Bittle makes an undignified sort of noise and ducks his head into Kent's chest. 

It's a precarious balance — this chair was _not_ made for this — but Bittle drapes his arms over Kent's shoulders and Kent gets one finger pressed lightly inside him, just to make him squirm. He reaches up with his other hand and cups Bittle's jaw.

"Hey," he says. "When you say stop, do you mean stop?"

It takes Bittle a second to focus, to catch his breath. "Wh— what?"

Kent shrugs, an awkward gesture with his hand on Bittle's ass and Bittle half in his lap. "I knew a girl once who kept saying 'I can't, I can't' all the time during sex. Fucking disconcerting till I got used to it, but … safewords. You need one, or do I stop if you say stop?" Bittle just blinks at him and Kent grins, sharp, looks over at Jack. "Consent 102."

"I — if I say stop." Bittle squirms down on Kent's finger some more; it doesn’t look like he's going to say stop any time soon. For a guy who usually tops, he's fucking gagging for it. Which is cool; Kent always has liked introducing people to new things.

"Okay?" Kent whispers. His hand slides from Bittle's jaw up to his hair, and when he runs his fingers through it Bittle puts his head down on Kent's shoulder and shivers. Kent can feel Bittle's breath hot against his neck, can feel it when he nods, shaky but determined.

Bittle presses down and Kent's own breath hitches as he feels himself slide in that first glorious inch — and then his lube-slick dick slips free and bounces, smacks Bittle in the ass. Kent can't help the snort of amusement that escapes him, and he can feel Bittle's teeth against his shoulder — a grin, not a bite, although there's always time.

"Let's try that again," he says into Bittle's ear. He jacks his own cock once, twice, checks to make sure the condom is in place and wraps his hand around the base of it; the other rests on Bittle's hip, a steady weight.

Bittle lifts his hips obligingly and sinks back down, and Kent holds his breath until he's halfway in, then lets go a louder groan than he'd meant to as Bittle moves the rest of the way. It's hard — it is, no pun intended, so fucking hard — to not push up into him, but Kent's determined to let Bittle set the pace. At least to start.

Bittle shifts his foot down onto the floor so he's more sitting in Kent's lap than anything, rolling his hips, subtle little movements that don't feel little at all.

"You feel so fucking good," he's saying, he doesn't realize he's saying until Bittle's hair is in his mouth and he's not sure why. "So fucking good, so tight, so good around me," and it's cliche babble bullshit but it's _true_ , and it's all he can think until he peels his eyes open and sees Jack staring at them, actually slack-jawed.

"So good," he says again, and watches Jack watch them. Bittle's not much of a talker, it seems — he's all soft cries and broken noises, muffling himself with Kent's shoulder the way he'd used his own fist earlier. Which is fine, because Kent … Kent's never been able to keep his mouth shut.

"Does he look good, Jack? Does he look good on me? Because he feels good." Not as good as you, he thinks, doesn't say, but maybe Bittle can hear it anyway because he clenches hard around Kent's dick. Kent hisses. "I wish you could feel this," he says. "Wish you could feel the way he feels on me. Maybe — maybe. What do you think, Bittle? You think you could take both of us?" 

He punctuates the idea with a jerk of his hips, and Bittle laughs like it's been forced out of him. "That looks like it hurts even in porn," he says into Kent's shoulder. Kent rubs the pad of his thumb across the stretch of Bittle's hole right above his dick; he doesn't move to push it in, not even a little, but the way Bittle shivers against him feels amazing.

Of course, of course Jack found this cute fucking kid who skates like a dream and watches DP porn, of course he did. Kent laughs, his voice low when he says, "What about Zimms? D'you think he'd like it? Both of us at the same time?"

There's a twitch against Kent's neck that he thinks might be Bittle raising an eyebrow. "Think it'd bench him? Might be the only way to get him off the ice. "

Bittle laughs, _giggles_ more like, at his own joke; he's all but bouncing in Kent's lap and Kent's eyes roll back in his head at the feel of it. He doesn't open them again until he hears Jack's voice.

"Are you two making fun of me?" Jack looks as cross as it's possible for someone to look with their hand on their dick, and he looks … he looks fucking _good_. Kent wishes he were closer, wishes he could touch him: touch his dick, yeah, his pecs, his ass, all that, and soothe down the wrinkles in his forehead that grow deeper when Kent says _no_ at the same time Bittle says _yes_. 

Bittle moves just a little each time he laughs; he's barely fucking himself on Kent's dick but it still feels amazing. He's just so _tight_. It's easy to believe he hasn't been fucked in a long time, but still, Kent can't believe that Jack has been passing this up. They'd look good — god, they’d look good no matter what, Kent's sure. He can imagine it though, Jack's legs locked around Bittle's waist as Bittle moves on top of him. As tiny as he is, he could have Jack pinned in an instant. 

It's easier than it would seem, he knows that for sure. After all, it’s easy to pin someone bigger than you if they want to get pinned. 

"You ever get topped by anyone bigger than you, Zimms, or do you just like —" Kent laughs. "It is little blond guys that do it for you, or just little guys in general?"

"Don't you say that —" Bittle grinds his hips down hard. It feels like a punishment. There's a little bit of fury in his voice, jealousy, pride.

Kent laughs again. "Don't worry. You're not me, Bits.You're not my replacement. I think he's got a type, that's all."

"I think," Bittle starts to say, but whatever he thinks is lost to the noise he makes when Kent gets a hand under each of his thighs and lifts him up. It's just a little, an inch or so, but it's enough that Kent can actually start _fucking_ him.

It's a lot of effort, frankly, and he doesn't keep the position for long, but Bittle appears to have gotten the message, or liked the feel of it at least. He tightens his arms around Kent and shifts his weight, just a little, so Kent can push up into him.

"Have you figured out all the weird shit he's into yet?" Kent smirks, even as Bittle frowns, even as Jack makes a noise of protest from the bed. He ignores it, keeps talking; he knows Jack doesn't mind, not really. 

"Weird shit?" Bittle echoes, breathless

"You know. Telling him what to do. And … not to state the obvious, but he likes watching," Kent says a little wistfully. "I brought a lot of girls back to a lot of hotel rooms. A couple boys, but mostly girls. Some of them were too trashed to remember he was even there, or some of them thought he was asleep. 'He's a deep sleeper, I promise.'" His tone turns mocking, a little mean, imitating his past self. "'Like the dead.' They never even checked to see if his eyes were open.

"I never told you this, Zimms — and I mean, we couldn't have done it. But I always wanted to fuck one of those girls without a condom, just so I could make you lick the taste of pussy off my dick."

"Parse," Jack says, a broken protest, and Kent knows without looking that Jack's hand is off his dick now, has moved lower, fingertips rubbing across his own asshole. Wrist twisted awkwardly in his jeans, smearing his own precome there if he'd thought that far ahead and feeling the friction if he hadn't; Kent can see it with his eyes closed. He has, a thousand times.

He doesn't look at Jack, threads his fingers through Bittle's hair instead and tugs, just slightly, enough to bare Bittle's throat. Kent nips at the bottom of his chin.

"He ever eat you out?"

"What?" Bittle sounds surprised, startled almost. Intrigued.

"He ever. Eat. You. Out?" He punctuates each word with a thrust, a tug on Bittle's hair. "Zimms eats ass like a dream. I hear he was good with girls, too. I bet he'd do it right now, if you went over and sat on his face."

"Maybe next time," Bittle says, half sarcastic and half like he's forgotten what words mean entirely, and does this gorgeous full body roll that feels amazing up and down Kent's dick, his spine, his toes, that ends with their foreheads pressed too close together to look in each other's eyes. Kent tries to focus and fails. "Fuck _me_ , Parson."

Kent doesn't say anything, doesn't think about _next time_ , just wraps his hands around Bittle's waist and holds him still, pushes up into him harder and harder until Bittle's fallen back against him.

He's got one arm looped around Kent's neck and the other working his dick between them. He's not on beat with the way Kent is fucking up into him; he doesn't seem on beat with himself. Kent can't see it, but he can feel it, Bittle's knuckles against his stomach in no discernible rhythm. He thinks about pushing Bittle back, making him jerk off where he can see, he really doesn't think about _next time_.

"Can I kiss you," Kent asks, and he's never asked anyone that before but somehow now, balls-deep in Jack's new boyfriend, seems the time and place. Bittle doesn't say anything, just gasps into Kent's neck again, mouths against it, then raises his face and kisses Kent squarely on the mouth. Kent keeps his eyes open. 

Over Bittle's shoulder he can see Jack finally work a finger into himself, his other hand grasping his dick so hard it looks almost painful. They lock eyes. Jack is better at being quiet than Bittle is.

One of Kent's hands moves from Bittle's hip up into his hair again. He holds him there, kisses him until Bittle goes shaky in his arms and breathes heavily into his mouth. "Parse," he says, and he's laughing, "Parse, let me breathe." Kent kisses him again and Bittle moves up into it, both his arms wrapped around Kent's neck and holding them tight. When he finally lets go it's to pull himself up, long and slow and tight, and sink back down on Kent's dick twice as fast.

They find a rhythm, faster than before.

"You're watching him, aren't you." Bittle nips at his ear. "What's he doing?"

"Watching us." Bittle bites him again, harder, and Kent laughs quietly. "Yeah, keep doing — mm, yeah." He's moved down to a spot on Kent's neck just below his ear, and Kent'll have a mark to remember this by tomorrow. He tilts his head just slightly, giving Bittle better access and himself a better view. Jack's got two fingers in himself to the first knuckle, and his eyes are so heavy-lidded Kent's amazed he can even see them. 

"You wanna see? He looks so good like that. He likes watching us." Kent can feel himself just starting to go again, rambling. He tucks his head into Bittle's shoulder but keeps narrating; he doesn't need to see Jack to know what he's doing. "He's got his dick in his hand but he's not really working it; he's too busy stuffing his ass. He's wishing it was —" _Me_ , he doesn't say, or _you_. There's a hitch in Bittle's breath.

"Wanna spin around? We could reverse cowgirl this shit. We could get him over here and have him suck you off, whatcha say to that?"

He works a hand between them and wraps his fingers around Bittle's dick. "Crawl over?" Bittle suggests, laughing shakily. "Hands and knees?"

"Mmm," Kent says, and strokes him a little faster. "That's good. I like that. You wanna? He looks so good like that, doesn't he? Probably wouldn't take much more for you, would it? You could just blow your load right on his face. Maybe —"

Wherever that sentence was going, it doesn't get there. Bittle shouts, actually _shouts_ , this sharp little "Ah!" that they can probably hear downstairs, and he sinks his teeth back into Kent's shoulder as he comes. 

Kent strokes him gently while he shakes through it, tries to hold back from coming right then and there himself, but the way Bittle's clenching down around him is making it difficult.

Bittle presses kisses to his jaw, soft and uneven, and leans down heavily.

"You can," he gasps into Kent's chest. His fingers tighten on Kent's shoulders; it feels like they might leave marks. "You can, if you want, if he wants. I'd —" He cuts himself off with a loud, shaky breath. 

Kent lets go of Bittle's dick, wipes his hand off on Bittle's chest without really thinking about it. 

"Can what?" His other hand rubs quiet circles on Bittle's hip, his lower back.

"Come on his face." It's half wistful, half command; he sounds entirely fucked out, and Kent has to take a deep, steadying breath.

"Yeah?" he asks, and Jack says, "Yeah."

Kent's eyes snap over to the bed. Jack's not touching himself anymore, not anywhere; he's sitting up on the edge of the bed with his hands on his knees, watching. His jeans are still undone, shoved partway down his thighs, and his dick juts out from them flushed and red, and Kent wants to get his mouth on it so bad he can't believe it.

Bittle's not moving, head still tucked against Kent's chest, his whole body a dead weight on Kent's aching dick. Kent squeezes his hip firmly. "C'mon, Bittle. I can't put my dick in his face if it's in your ass."

It's crude, but effective; Bittle laughs, and slowly, _slowly_ stands up, easing himself off of Kent. He peels the condom off his dick and tosses it toward (almost definitely into, but whatever; he didn't actually come in it, it's fine. Jack has touched worse) the trash bin. Bittle's still a little shaky next to him, and Kent wraps an arm around his waist to keep him upright and tight to his side. 

He takes a step toward the bed, then another, Bittle an unsteady echo. 

"Hey Zimms," he says. He reaches out to cup Jack's chin.

"Parse," Jack says, and smiles. His eyes are almost all pupil; he looks turned on as hell. Kent wants to kiss it off him, fuck it off him, a million things.

Jack doesn't move when Kent's hand moves away to wrap around the base of his dick and trace the head of it over Jack's lips. Even in the low light they look shiny with Kent's precome, and it's a nice sight. Jack's tongue darts out to lick his lips and licks at Kent's dick, too. He leans in just slightly, nuzzles at Kent's dick, rubs his cheek across the length of it. 

And that's it, that's fucking all Kent needs, he’s coming before he can even think to aim.

He's still shaking off the last few drops when Bittle is on Jack, pressing him down into the bed and kissing him hard, heedless of Kent's come on Jack's lips. In the gasping seconds when Jack comes up for air, Kent can hear him say, "Eric, Eric," over and over.

Bittle brings his hand up to Jack's cheek. Kent feels a surge of — something at the sight of his come on Bittle's fingers, but he barely has a chance to feel it before those fingers are pressed against Jack's lips. 

Jack's lips part for Bittle's fingers the way they had for his tongue, the way they had for Kent, his eyes coming slowly open as he sucks them in. Bittle pulls his fingers out slowly, and Jack's tongue follows, swirling around them once more. There's a bit of awe to Bittle's voice as he breathes out, "So _good_.

"So good," he says again, "So _good_ for me," and then those fingers move down, still slick with Jack's spit. Bittle drags his hand over Jack's nipple, hard, and then plunges his fingers yet more roughly into Jack's ass. Kent can see the way Jack's whole body jerks, can almost _feel_ it. It's way too soon for him to get hard again, but his dick's giving a valiant effort.

It's insanely hot, Bittle fingerfucking Jack and the way Jack just falls apart, and Kent can't stop staring, can't keep his eyes off Jack's face. Their eyes meet, and Jack gives him a shaky little smile. " _Eric_ ," he says again, and his eyes roll back in his head.

And Jack just keeps saying his name, keeps saying "Eric, _Eric_ , Eric," as he shakes through his orgasm. 

Bittle eases off him, finally. He pets Jack's inner thigh with the hand that had been in Jack's ass, the other running through Jack's hair. "So good," he whispers again.

And somehow — somehow that's the first time this whole night that Kent has felt _jealous_. Kent used to be the one holding Jack as he slowly came back to himself post-orgasm; he'd been the one to do that more than a few times after Jack had sex with someone _else_. But now … 

Kent doesn't know if Jack was ever his, really. But Jack is Bittle's now. That much is clear.

(He's _Eric_ 's, because Bittle is Eric, like Kent used to be Kenny. Like Kent used to be the only one who was … at least in private, more than a jersey number, more than a hockey nickname, like he wasn't hockey at all. Like in the world of Jack Zimmermann, where everything was hockey … he was something _else_.)

Bittle kisses Jack one more time and then sits up, picks his underwear up from the floor and slips them on. His jeans follow, although he doesn't do them up. He shrugs into his t-shirt and stuffs his socks into his pocket as he stands up, stretches, yawns.

"I'm going to bed, boys," he says, accent thick again; Kent wonders if that always happens when he's tired, can't hold back the thought that he'd like to find out.

Bittle leans back down to the bed to kiss Jack long and slow, then turns back to Kent with a smile on his face. Kent feels … not intimidated, not really, but at a loss somehow, and it's not just because he must look as disheveled as he feels.

"Pie's still on the desk if you want some. I don't know if you're staying the night, but if you are, I'll have breakfast going in the morning — you might get conscripted into clean up duty, I warn you now. If you don't stay …" He leans up and presses a kiss to Kent's cheek, soft and sweet and dry. "Then I'll see you when I see you, I suppose."

Kent watches as Bittle walks out the door. There's a bit of an awkward tilt to his gait, and Kent can't help the smile that creeps onto his face as a result.

Jack is sitting up in bed, looking at the door with an expression that's almost … goofy, it's so full of love. Kent's own smile falters, but he paints it back on. "I should probably get going," he says. He rebuttons his jeans and gets to work on his shirt, runs a hand uselessly through his hair, and doesn't look at Jack at all.

"You probably should," Jack says quietly, and then, "But you don't have to."

Kent looks, of course he fucking turns to look at Jack. Jack's looking at him and he's smiling, and his smile isn't a Parse-and-Zimms-on-the-town smile, or a long hotel night smile, or a championship game smile. The smile on his face isn't like the one he's got for Bittle. It's not even close. 

But it's something.

 

_/ _/ _/

**Author's Note:**

> think i know it's with [meeeeee](http://reserve.tumblr.com/post/112450834425/taylor-swift-title-project-name-your-fan-fiction)
> 
> all of this is a zillion times funnier if you consider the fact that we have no idea where kent actually lives beyond "new york state," which means he could very well have driven nine hours to come to this party. oh kiddo.
> 
> (and look i'm not saying there's gonna be a sequel to this but that pie's gotta get eaten _sometime_.)
> 
> hit me up [on tumblr](http://robokittens.tumblr.com) if you wanna cry about kent parson


End file.
